


Chemistry

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is home for his first Christmas break from Oxford university.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has now been remixed by the absolutely mind-blowing writer, stardust_made. I definitely recommend you go [here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/54672.html) and read it as quickly as possible. <3

Mycroft has had three women since October; one who had a thing for buying him expensive silk ties, one who worked in the City and one who likes to bite. Sherlock knows this within seconds of seeing him. He also knows that only one of them was serious, but he can't be sure which one.

In the two months since he went to Oxford, Sherlock hasn't had anyone. He doesn't tell Mycroft this, though he assumes he knows. 

The house is settling as he makes his way carefully along the passageway, the bang of the kitchen door downstairs indicating the departure of Mrs Whitstable, finally finished preparing the cold meats for tomorrow morning's breakfast. Sherlock knows that when he's here she doesn't even increase the order from the butcher because he eats so little but that when Mycroft is in residence she orders an extra side of ham. He is saving this one for the next time Mycroft defies him.

The door is closed, as it always is. Sherlock turns the handle and goes in without knocking, as he always does.

It's never once been locked. 

Mycroft is sitting on the bed surrounded by papers. He doesn't look up when Sherlock comes in, just furrows the tiny lines on his brow a little further, makes a note on the document he's reading.

"Don't bang the door, mummy will hear you."

Sherlock scowls at him. As _if_ he'd bang the door. He's not a _child._

But he bites back his reply, needs Mycroft on side more than he needs to vent his anger.

Feet light and careful on the floorboards he knows groan from the many years of Mycroft's weight, Sherlock goes over to the window. The moon is full behind the heavy drape of the red velvet curtains and from here Sherlock can see the aching sweep of the driveway. Mycroft always did have the best view.

"Don't disturb the net curtains, Sherlock," Mycroft drawls, and then there is the flick of a page being turned.

Sherlock grits his teeth. "How long are you going to carry on being boring for?"

Precise, careful eyes look up from the government document and Sherlock feels a brief thrill in his stomach at the intensity in them. "My apologies, perhaps I should ask the Russian first minister to wait whilst I entertain you?"

Sighing heavily at the sarcasm, Sherlock lets his shoulders drop and goes over to the bed. As he climbs on, Mycroft goes back to his paper, pen circling words here and there. 

"You were very annoying at dinner," Sherlock says, draping himself along the base of the bed, covering Mycroft's feet. He feels a toe carefully rub at his ankle in reply.

"I was merely trying to instigate lively debate."

"You were _annoying,"_ Sherlock repeats. He burrows himself further into Mycroft's familiar sheets. He has never been more glad to be away from Oxford.

They lie in silence as Sherlock watches the fire burn in the grate across the room, disturbed only by the scratch of Mycroft's pen and the occasional hiss and pop of wood crackling under flames. The orange glow dances back and forth over the canopy that falls around the four posts of the bed and for a moment Sherlock thinks maybe he could sleep, imagines waking in the early hours to find Mycroft has undressed him, pulled him up to the pillows. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Oxford is tedious."

Mycroft turns another page but glances over. "It takes a little while to settle in."

"I _am_ settled in," Sherlock replies, nettled by the accusation of homesickness. He doesn't want Mycroft to think that, not for a second. "It's simply that everyone else there is utterly stupid."

"Such an optimistic attitude..." Mycroft says quietly, turning another page. Annoyed, Sherlock rolls his eyes into the soft blanket. He feels a swell of frustrated energy rising to the surface of his skin, waiting to get out. Waiting.

He's been waiting for this since October.

"What's her name, then?"

This - satisfyingly - gets Mycroft's attention. He glances up from his papers. "'Her?'"

Sherlock takes a guess. "The one who likes you in a silk tie."

A flicker of something crosses Mycroft's features and Sherlock feels a small - but hollow - victory. 

"Jane."

It sits nicely on Mycroft's tongue and for a second Sherlock imagines him calling it to her. He feels himself crackle with dislike.

"Prefers the overweight man, does she?"

Eyes locked, they have a brief, silent war. Mycroft squints at him politely, conceding the point. "I'm on a diet."

"Yes, it looked it at dinner," Sherlock replies. "I was put very briefly in mind of a hoover."

He gets no answer to that, only a Look. Sherlock feels a burn rising in his chest like acid. Bile. 

"Fine then," he eventually says, when Mycroft refuses to look away. "I'll leave you to get on with it."

One swift move and he's up off the bed, stalking to the door across the creaking old floorboards. He came here without his socks and after the brief warmth of the bed the cold seems rude and forced.

His hand is already on the door when Mycroft speaks. 

"Sherlock."

Turning, he ignores it.

_"Sherlock."_

He pauses, listening to the sound of Mycroft breathing over the hiss of the fire.

"Come back here, don't be so petulant."

He calculates the precise tone of his voice, the exact force of his words. Eventually, Sherlock abandons the door handle and turns back to the bed. Mycroft is still watching him.

He feels a brief war between his need and his pride and they have a little staring contest for a moment or two, both aware of what capitulation costs Sherlock. Finally, he goes back to the bed. Climbing back on, he's careful not to touch Mycroft this time. His own form of making a stand, his own little defiance. He lies against the pillows, careful to squash a few important government documents underneath his body, satisfied with the crunch of crinkling paper.

After a second of tense silence, Mycroft shifts on the bed. When he's done they're several inches closer, though still not touching. Sherlock accepts this for the gesture it is.

"You always did have the better bed," he mutters after a few moments, considering the firm but comfortable support on his back. He bounces a little.

"Yes, it's blatant favouritism," Mycroft drawls. Sherlock catches the sarcasm and glances up at him.

"So when will you be finished?"

"Shortly." Mycroft turns a page. "Besides, they won't be asleep yet."

"They are," Sherlock replies. "I checked."

He personally thinks this is a stupid little game, waiting for their parents to go to sleep. Never once have they barged in here, neither would they. A closed door is a closed door in the Holmes household.

"Both of them?"

Sherlock huffs at this implied distrust. "Possibly father was still reading."

Mycroft glances down at him. "Possibly?"

"Fine, definitely."

Mycroft goes back to his papers. "He has sharp hearing."

"I promise not to continue a loud narration of what's going on then," Sherlock grumbles, rolling his eyes. Despite his efforts to the contrary, he still feels a prickle of impatience zinging through him, radiating from his skin. He twitches on the bed, foot accidentally grazing Mycroft's calf. He moves away then a second later feels pressure, re-establishing the contact. 

For a minute or two, this calms him.

"I hate Christmas."

"Yes," Mycroft drawls, turning his final page. "You make that obvious every year."

"Archaic nonsense."

"Quite."

"Childish excuse for relatives to gather and annoy one another."

"Annoying you, am I?"

Sherlock looks up. "Perpetually."

The smile Mycroft gives him is tight and not really a smile at all. "This isn't a _game,_ Sherlock, it's my job."

"And I hope you and your _job_ are very happy together."

He wonders if the silk ties are a sexual thing. The thought disgusts him.

Sighing as though he's dealing with a toddler, Mycroft returns to his work. Sherlock has a good mind to kick him in the shin, but then that would be counter-productive. He restrains the urge.

Almost thrumming with tension, he turns on his side, facing away from the warm body beside him. It's an ugly view, Mycroft's bedside table, the old wardrobe that used to be his, a polished and perfect briefcase. The clock ticking in the corner sounds louder facing this way and Sherlock glares into the middle distance, considering leaving. He has suffered two months in Oxford by himself, quite confident he could make another night. The prim little briefcase seems to sneer at him.

And then quietly behind him there is the noise of a pen being clicked, the delicate whoosh of paper hitting the floor and the shifting of the bed. Tensed, Sherlock waits for the next noise, the next move.

Instead suddenly he is touched, a body pressed right up against his from behind, curving into all the spaces that he makes. A knee pushes between his and he feels the slow, hot curl of relief in his stomach.

"You're cold," Mycroft says, voice so close to his ear that Sherlock can _feel_ it. He lets his eyes fall shut as lips cover the whorl of his ear, make him shiver.

He wants to push back against the familiar body but waits.

"Perhaps if you hadn't taken so long," he mutters, still sore.

"Are you going to continue this until New Year?" Mycroft asks, dipping a tongue into the shell of his ear. Sherlock feels himself weaken.

"Possibly."

"When you were five you refused to speak to me for an entire month when I broke your chemistry set."

"By sitting on it?" Sherlock asks. He responds to the feeling of fingers ghosting over his hips by moving into them, grazing their bodies together. He feels something inside himself start to unravel.

"Very original," Mycroft replies, voice curling around the words in a way that makes Sherlock impossibly hard. He swallows quickly to normalise his voice.

"I still haven't forgiven you for that."

"No, of course not," Mycroft says, and though his tone is sharp there are now lips on Sherlock's neck and he feels the words being spoken right into his skin. He makes a short, involuntary groaning noise when teeth nip at the curve of his shoulder and the fingers on his hip tighten in response. 

He finally presses back against Mycroft's body and is rewarded with another bite, left as far down as teeth can get with Sherlock's t-shirt in the way. He arches his neck carefully so that Mycroft can move around to the front; it makes him shiver when on instinct he does just that, firmly practiced in the various ways to make Sherlock slide from sulking into boneless. 

Sherlock curls his fingers into the ones resting on his waist and feels them fit perfectly, just similar enough to mould into each other. He gasps when he gets a nip to the jaw, Mycroft clearly approving of that.

"Lift," Mycroft says firmly into his ear, and Sherlock realises there is another hand now sitting underneath him, tugging at the edges of his thin pyjama bottoms. He lifts himself just enough away from the bed for Mycroft to slide them down, kicking them away from his feet as a familiar hand grazes the back of his right thigh, pushing it up until Sherlock's knee is bent in front of him on the bed. He lets out a quiet, shuddering breath as he realises what is about to happen.

A slick, wet finger presses against him and Sherlock groans, turning his face into the pillow. He still feels taut from thoughts of Oxford and 'Jane' and broken chemistry sets but when damp lips cover the back of his neck again he starts to relax. 

"Sherlock..." Mycroft mutters, lapping at his skin and his fingers curl into the sheets on his brother's bed as Sherlock arches back, ready. It feels like Mycroft is taking an impossibly long time, teasing, until he kisses up over Sherlock's ear and whispers, "Push."

Sherlock does, pushes back against him, and then stifles a groan of pure relief into the pillow at the feeling of Mycroft's fingers inside him. He eases in slowly - too slowly - and then they rest there, pressed against each other and breathing already far too uneven to be decent.

Eventually Mycroft starts to slide two long, graceful fingers out of him before pushing firmly back in and Sherlock twists himself further from the sensation, pressing his erection impatiently into the mattress. His eyes are closed tight but he can feel Mycroft watching him, opening him up further and further until Sherlock is forced to groan. Loudly. He is rewarded with another nip to the back of his neck and his body arches, offering himself further to the fingers scissoring inside him.

His mind now a blur of arousal, Sherlock holds out for a few more moments of this agonising, delicious torture until he pushes a hand down between himself and the bed and takes hold of his erection. He manages to squeeze once, satisfyingly, before Mycroft sees what he's doing and bites sharply at the soft lobe of his ear. "No, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulls his hand away, realises he's panting and swallows hard. "You do it, then."

Mycroft kisses his upturned face, over his cheek and then down along his jawline whilst Sherlock squirms and eventually says, "Turn over."

The loss of Mycroft's fingers inside him feel like a bereavement and Sherlock turns himself quickly until he's on his back, the t-shirt he's still wearing tangled up around him. A quick shrug removes it and then he's lying back on the bed, thighs falling shamelessly open as his eyes flicker to Mycroft's lips.

He still hasn't kissed him. Two months in Oxford thinking about being back at home and he _still_ hasn't kissed him.

"You're getting thinner," Mycroft says, taking in the length of his body. He leans up on one arm to reach down and kiss here and there, peppering Sherlock's chest and stomach before moving back up to his neck.

"Makes one of us, then."

He can't help it and Mycroft smiles tightly like he wishes he wasn't. "Very droll. Really Sherlock, you should be on the stage."

He tries not to think, as familiar fingers wrap around his erection, that he wouldn't lie here like this for anyone else, so open and obvious and _needing._ He squashes that thought thoroughly, distraction aided by the sharp twist of Mycroft's wrist, practiced over years. He learnt from watching Sherlock do it to himself, picked up effortlessly all the best ways to drive him as mad as possible, as quickly as possible. They hold each other's gaze for a moment as Mycroft touches him before somehow they're finally kissing, Sherlock pushing hands into short, dark hair and pulling just a little too hard in order to feel the tremors running through the body against him. 

His orgasm seems to rush up on him embarrassingly quickly after that, the feeling of Mycroft's tongue sweeping inside his mouth. It's all far too much for him with Mycroft pressed hard against him and dragging his thumb expertly over the head of his cock. Sherlock doesn't try to be quiet (they've made far much more noise than this in the past) and for a short, staccato moment he presses his face into his brother's neck, feels his erratic, jumping pulse beneath his skin as he tries to calm his own breathing.

A trail of kisses up over his jaw somehow manages to wake him up and Sherlock raises his knees, settles his back more comfortably as Mycroft moves over him and presses two still slick fingers back inside him. His body flinches for a moment at the overload of sensation but then it eases, only to shock him again when Mycroft replaces his fingers with his cock, this time leaning down and kissing the feeling away. It never takes long when they're like this, when it's been months and Mycroft has had the slow pleasure of watching Sherlock first. 

Afterwards they lie in damp, messy sheets and adjust to the sudden cool of separated skin.

On Christmas morning Sherlock opens his gifts to find that Mycroft has bought him a children's chemistry set. He finally forgives him.


End file.
